


Sweeter Music

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Boys Kissing, California, Fluff, In case, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, No Smut, NorCal/SoCal Dynamics, Past Character Death, San Francisco Bay Area, choir!au, it's not, just wanted to warn, that sounds heavy, that's a real thing, that's in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry, as the only boy from his tiny Bay Area school at the California All State Honor Choir for 2016, has to share a hotel room with boys from SoCal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter Music

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time doing this, which is very scary and exciting!  
> This is a work of fiction, obviously, and based on the boys' public personas.  
> I know that this isn't exactly how Honor Choir works, this is mostly based on a different festival, but I had to have Harry without his school friends, so I made it something more elite.  
> In defense of my (very minor) use of original characters: I honestly don't feel like I know the boys' non-band friends well enough to write them.  
> As will probably be obvious if you read this, I'm from the Bay Area. I love it, I miss it. You should go, it's great.  
> If a bajillion-to-one coincidence happens and someone from my old high school choir reads this....oops? You'll know.  
> This is dedicated to Louis and Harry, for helping me get through a really bad time in my life, I hope you're free soon.  
> Basically 7k of fluff.  
> The title comes from a Christmas carol I love, it's a nonsequitor, really, the boys just remind me of happy stuff.

DAY ONE  
Harry really, really hates his choir teacher. Okay, so maybe he can’t actually hate her, she’s done so much for him, been his advocate and friend, but he is seriously frustrated right now. So he decides to text Madison, because she hates Ms. Lee enough more than he ever could.  
_I still can’t believe she’s making me do this_ he types, hopefully awaiting a response. 

Madison, as usual, doesn’t disappoint. **She’s a heteronormative, control freak, dictator idiot.** That probably isn’t fair, but Harry’s too angry to call his best friend out on it. He rehearses the conversations in his mind, goes over all of the things he said to try to convince Ms. Lee to let him room with Gemma and Rachel: 

“I’m gay, you know that, you were the first adult I came out to--”

“My SISTER will be in the room, no one will fault you when there are siblings involved--” 

“Rachel has a hot as hell boyfriend for heaven’s sake, they’re the choir power couple, everyone knows that--sorry that was inappropriate, I know, I’m sorry, everyone thinks Ahmed’s hot, but what I’m trying to say is--”

“I’m one of the only freshmen who got in, please, I’m going to be so lonely--” 

But Ms. Lee had only shaken her head sadly, and said, “But Harry, if I let you do it, then where do I draw the line?”

So here Harry sits, the only boy from Ocean View Prep at the California All-State Honor Choir, alone in a hotel room with a bunch of strangers’ luggage, waiting for his doom to arrive in the form of probably older, probably bro-y, probably straight, roommates from SoCal, who he’ll have to live with for three nights. He has his back against the wall, knees drawn up, the picture of teen sadness. So when the next of Madison’s texts reads **this is so shitty, dude, I’m sorry** , all he can do is nod morosely to no one at his own ill-luck, the curls springing forward on his head contrasting annoyingly with his mood. Before he has too much time to wallow, however, the door bangs open, and Harry startles up from his phone and looks into a pair of blue, blue eyes. 

“Oops,” Harry says faintly.

“Hi,” say the eyes. And there must be a person there, but all Harry sees right now is blue.

When Harry pulls his gaze from those mesmerizing eyes, after a few hours (well, seconds, but he’s fifteen, okay?) he realizes they’re set in a beautiful face, pointed and striking, topped by...golden brown surfer hair? Who even has swoop-y hair like that in 2016? And the guy (The Guy, really, Harry can already tell) even has one of those weird shell necklace choker things to top off his tight blue t-shirt/basketball short/flip-flop combination. He is so SoCal, and Harry is so dead.

 _SHIT_ Harry types, almost automatically. _I’M CLAIRE DANES._

As he returns his already buzzing phone to his pocket, he gives himself a mental shake and stands, about to attempt social niceties when a second new person bounds into the room like a puppy. It takes Harry a second to process bleached hair, hipster glasses, and a slow smile full of braces. Then he sees the guitar case strapped to the stranger’s back. So he’s one of those...Harry can live with that. 

“I’m Harry” Harry begins with a judiciously small smile, studiously avoiding The Guy’s laser-beam stare to focus on the hipster wannabe in front of him.

“I’m Niall,” answers the guitar player. “And that guy who keeps staring at you is Louis. C’mon, L, get your shit together. Say hello.” 

“Hello,” says Louis in a soft, slightly high pitched voice. And Harry is struck by how normal he sounds. Is Louis somehow both a surf god and a person? Before Harry can give this question real thought, Louis speaks again, saying, “I have to head to a tenor one sectional right now, but good to meet you, Harold!” 

Louis grabs a black folder out of the backpack that sits on one of the two queen-sized beds. As Louis turns to the door, Harry’s impulses get the better of him. 

“Troy Bolton called, L, he wants his hair back!” he shouts, before he can lose his nerve. 

Niall lets out a shocked laugh, while Louis flips Harry off over his shoulder and heads out the door at run, flip-flops flapping as he disappears around the corner. 

After Niall high fives him and leaves in search of food, Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket and finds a series of increasingly angry texts from Madison:

**which scene?**

**Which scene??**

**AYCH, WHICH SCENE DON’T LEAVE ME HANGING DAMMIT**

_fishtank_ is all he replies.

**NO. WHAT. OMG WHO IS THE GUY???**

_my roommate_

**HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...you’re screwed.**

Madison is right. Harry is screwed.

***  
It’s been a long day, and Harry is feeling pretty done with teenage girls. He’s been trying to be sociable. In breaks in between rehearsals, he has introduced himself to as many of the other 330 singers gathered in San Francisco as he can. He’s laughed at jokes, frowned playfully at those making fun of his age, and said the phrase “I go to a tiny private school” more times than he can count. But strangers keep hitting on him, and it’s gotten less funny that their gaydar is so bad. So now, squeezed between Rachel and his sister at a round plastic table in a high school gym, he keeps his gaze downturned and his mouth shut as various girls chatter around him. Gemma and Rachel’s friends seem plenty nice, and un-creepy, but he can’t seem to keep them straight. He thinks he caught the names Eleanor, Perrie, and Sophia, but he’s not entirely sure. And Harry is annoyed that the only two people he knows already have friends here, although it isn’t the girls’ fault that they’re older and know the drill. As a particularly loud round of giggles breaks out around him, he lifts his head and huffs in exasperation, and his eyes catch on blue across the gym. 

Louis is at a table with Niall and two boys Harry hasn’t met yet. He seems to take in Harry’s situation in an instant, quickly pushing up between his friends to stand first on the plastic bench, and then on the table. Harry can see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even from fifty feet away. As annoyed parent volunteers rush to scold him, he shouts “Save me, Harold!” to the room at large, though most are too occupied to notice. 

Harry stares, dumbfounded, until Rachel pokes him in the shoulder. “Go!” she says, with a knowing look. Blushing, Harry goes.

DAY TWO

Harry is bored. He can’t help it. He knows that this masterclass is a great opportunity, once in a lifetime, but his mind keeps wandering. He doesn’t want to listen to this crazy old lady lecturing about opera anymore, they’ve been sitting in this theater for an hour already. His stomach is rumbling. Opera isn’t even his genre!

With his mind disengaged from the lecture, he can’t help it that it drifts back to dinner last night again. It’s a wonderful memory, in the true meaning of the word. Harry is full of wonder at the thought of it. He gives himself a mental shake. It’s not like that. It’s not stars aligning and birds singing and rainbows forming into hearts, two million people cheering. He’s fifteen, he shouldn’t be thinking like that. It’s just…nice.

Louis had introduced him to the other boys at the table, Liam and Zayn, who were from a school near Davis. Farm boys though they were, they were adorable. Liam was puppy-doggish, with big brown eyes, floofy hair, and an earnest, self-serious way of talking that made Harry alternately want to cuddle him and punch him. Zayn was quiet and kind, seeming to take in everything that was said and file it away for later use. He was also aesthetically perfect, there was no other way about it. He was hapa, with swoopy black hair buzzed on the sides, long eyelashes, and cheekbones that could cut glass. He had a surprising, slightly dorky smile that reminded Harry of sunflowers and corn and Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick. Louis had whispered to Harry that “Ziam” were coming up on their second anniversary, and Harry’s shoulders had ached to fit themselves under someone’s arm like Zayn fit beneath Liam, his heart hurt with longing for someone to look at him with the outright admiration Liam directed at Zayn. 

Now Harry feels that longing again, and focuses on drawing a deathly hallows symbol on the back of his hand to avoid the temptation of looking back again to where Louis sits three rows behind him. He’s writing “Slytherin Pride” around his wrist in his curliest handwriting when he suddenly realizes that everyone around him is getting up. While he was trying (and failing) to not think about Louis, the class had ended.

“Harry!” Harry hears, and he startles to hear his name. He turns around to find the source, and sees Liam standing a few feet away, Zayn under one arm, and Louis repeatedly poking him in the shoulder on the other side and whispering in his ear. “We’re about to go to the gym to grab whatever terrible pre-packaged sandwiches they have for us, want to come?”

Does Harry want to come? HELL YES HE DOES. It’s not like he has any other friends here besides Gemma and Rachel, and they don’t want him tagging along anyways. He jogs to reach the little group, and asks “Where’s Niall?”

Liam shrugs. “Off chasing girls, probably.”

“Ew.” respond Harry, Zayn, and Louis at once, and Harry can feel his smile growing bigger as he realizes that here is the answer to his unvoiced question about Louis’ sexuality. He can feel rather than see Louis looking at his left dimple, and he blushes. He knows that he looks cute like this, he’s not an idiot, and Louis, beautiful, beachy, perfect Louis, is looking.

After they’ve reached the gym and grabbed sandwiches, they settle down at a table, Niall sliding between Harry and Louis on the curved plastic bench at the last minute, much to Harry’s chagrin. After they’ve taken a few bites, Harry has a thought. “Zayn” he ventures, a little nervous to address the beautiful boy in front of him. “You of course don’t have to answer this, please tell me off if I’m being offensive, but are you Muslim?”

“Yep! My dad’s Pakistani. And I don’t mind questions” Zayn responds, his smile lighting up his face. Harry internally sighs with relief. “How did you know, though?” Zayn asks, looking intrigued.

“Do you know Rachel?” Harry asks, to nods from around the table. She is, undeniably, the most accomplished singer here, so it’s no surprise, and Harry had even seen her and Gemma chatting with Louis and Niall earlier. “Her boyfriend, Ahmed, is like an older brother to me. We’re all tangled up in each other’s lives, her sister is my best friend. We’re like an extended family, sort of--” Harry pauses to catch his breath and sees Louis make a “get to the point” type gesture out of the corner of his eye, but his expression is so amused and endeared that Harry doesn’t mind. He returns to the explanation at hand. “Anyways, I noticed you and Liam both carefully grabbing non-ham sandwiches, and I’ve seen Rachel and Ahmed do that so many times that I just kind of assumed?”

“Is that a question?” asks Louis, and Harry glares at him. “Nice detective work, though,” Louis adds, and Harry can feel himself beaming. He stops abruptly when Louis reaches across Niall to grab Harry’s left wrist. All Harry can think about is Louis’ calloused palm scratching over the soft skin of his hand, so he almost misses it when Louis says, “So what’s this, then?”

Harry blushes, and he knows it isn’t cute this time. “Um, I’m a Harry Potter fan?” 

“OH MY GOD” says Liam, whipping his head around so fast that Harry’s afraid his neck will break. Zayn breaks into silent giggles as Liam leans across the table towards Harry. “So, you’re a Slytherin? Zayn always says he’s a Slytherin, but he just took the new Pottermore quiz and he’s a Ravenclaw, which I could have predicted, ha. I’m a Gryffindor” Zayn snorts, audibly, “Okay, so I was a hatstall between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, but I chose Gryffindor. Louis is obviously a Gryffindor, too. Can you guess Niall?”

Harry blinks, taking in the sudden flood of information, and answers, softly, “Hufflepuff?” to a raucous peal of laughter from the rest of the group.

“You obviously need to spend more time with Niall,” explains Zayn. “He’s a Slytherin through and through.”

Harry’s confused. Niall? A Slytherin? He seems so innocuous! He’ll have to ask Louis about it later. That’s a nice thought.

Liam’s voice breaks into his daydreams, saying, “I know it’s impossible, but if you’re a fellow Potterhead, I’m going to need you to give me a favorite moment from the books. Please, I need opinions, Zayn won’t even talk to me about HP anymore.” 

Even as Harry opens his mouth to speak, he knows this is a bad idea. He knows the road this conversation leads down, and he likes these guys. He doesn’t want this conversation to turn weird and heavy, for the careful, careful looks to be directed at him again. Shit, he doesn’t want Louis to see him cry. But Harry is unfailingly honest, especially when it comes to issues he cares about. He can’t lie about this, that would be a betrayal--of himself, of his dad’s memory, of the goddess on earth that is Joanne Kathleen Rowling--he can’t do it. So, he starts to speak:

“Um, I love lots of parts of the books. But my favorite-favorite would probably have to be in the last book, ‘The Forest Again’? Where Harry’s mom tells him ‘you’ve been so brave’” and SHIT Harry’s eyes are filling with tears and he can feel them and all of the boys are going to see them soon and that’s not okay and why does he have to be such a dork and so sensitive and he can feel Louis’ panicked gaze on him and he knows that at least Louis has seen and that makes him want to sink into the floor and he’s about to start crying in earnest when Liam shrieks.

Louis had reached over and tweaked Liam’s nipple, hard, and has somehow become engaged in a slap-fight with Zayn across Liam’s body in about two seconds flat. Harry’s surprise is only increased when he feels Niall clap him on the back and whisper in his ear, “Louis really likes you, dude. I haven’t seen him develop a crush this quickly in hella long. Possibly ever.”

 

***  
Harry looks like a walking stick of gum. Okay, so he’s not 100% certain on that, but he’s too worried to come out of the bathroom and risk it. When he bought these trunks last year in his big “I’m gay, deal with it” phase (a phase that had also included an unfortunate blue-haired boyfriend and a lot of pda), he had been pleased, in a rebellious way, with their hot pink color and mid-thigh length. But now he has to go to a hotel pool with a guy he really likes, a guy who’s a cool surfer from SoCal and two years older than him, and he knows that he looks ridiculous. He doesn’t have anything else to wear, though, so he steps out of his hotelroom and begins to make his way to the pool, where he promised to meet Louis, Zayn, Liam, and Niall.

He opens the sliding glass door and steps out into the freezing night air just in time to see Louis do a backflip into the deep end. Harry knows that he lets out an unmanly shriek, but he pouts when everyone laughs at him anyways. “You could have cracked your beautiful head open!” he insists. And, oops, he just called Louis beautiful. No one seems to mind, though.

Niall climbs up out of the pool and grabs Harry by the wrist. Harry shrieks again at the coldness of the water on his skin, but Niall laughs heartlessly. “C’mon, H, it’s much warmer in the water, the pool’s heated and everything.” 

Harry shakes off Niall’s fingers and walks around to the deep end of the pool. Louis is lounging by the wall, head resting on his folded arms on the edge, the rest of his body floating out behind him. Harry thinks he looks like a model with his hair slicked back by the water. “C’mon, H,” Louis says with a slow, sweet smile. “Are you going to come in or just stand there looking like a gorgeous ken doll in those shorts?”

Harry blushes fiercely as the other boys make gagging sounds, and takes a flying leap into the pool. He somehow manages to splash all four of the others. Louis swims up behind him and tries to dunk him under the water, Niall tackles Louis, and soon it’s a free-for-all.

After twenty minutes of splashing and yelling and swearing, Zayn and Liam head back to their room (or, rather, Liam’s room, their choir director having been too wise to let them room together). Niall looks between Louis and Harry for a second, and then gets out of the pool without a word.

Sitting in silence on the shallow end steps with Louis, Harry feels oddly content. Like this is where he’s supposed to be. Louis reaches out a hand, and Harry feels the rough pads of his fingertips brush, ever so gently, against the tiny stick’n’poke anchor on Harry’s ribs, an unspoken question. The touch echoes through Harry’s bones, bouncing from nerve-ending to nerve-ending, eventually reaching and lighting every fibre of his body. All Harry can think is “please, please, touch me again” so it’s a second before he says, slowly, “It’s to ground me in what’s really important. My best friend did it for me. Please don’t tell my sister yet.” He lets out a half-laugh, trying to seem normal.

“What’s really important?” Louis asks, quietly.

“Um.” Harry begins uneloquently, but he knows what he’s going to say. “Family. Real friends, the ones who stick around. Love, of all kinds. Music. Always music.”

“What instruments do you play?” Louis asks, and Harry loves that Louis knows that he plays more than one instrument just from talking to him.

“Guitar and violin,” he answers with a smile, fluttering his eyelashes in a goofy way that somehow doesn’t break the delicate moment. “How about you?”

“Just piano,” Louis says with a modest shrug, and Harry realizes that if he doesn’t get out of this pool soon he’s going to say something suggestive about fingers, and he actually quite likes the delicate dance Louis and he have going. So he leans over and kisses Louis on his surfing-tanned, golden cheek before he can lose his nerve, and dashes up the pool steps to grab a towel. Then he turns around to wink at Louis, who is still sitting chest-deep in water, looking thunderstruck. Harry saunters slowly to the sliding glass door, and he can see Louis startle and run to catch up with him in the reflection on the building. They laugh all the way back to their room.

DAY THREE

Harry wakes up happy. He, Louis, and Niall had talked late into the night the night before, and they don’t have rehearsal until one today, so they decided last night to let themselves sleep in. The alarm that’s going off means it’s ten, and Harry rolls onto his side to turn it off and finds...Louis?

“Lou?” he says, sleepily, not quite believing his eyes. How did this gorgeous boy end up in his bed? When Harry went to sleep last night, Louis was definitely sharing the other queen with Niall.

Louis shoots awake. “Oh my god!” is the first thing he says, sitting straight up, staring at Harry with his blue eyes round and confused. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Harry, I sleepwalk, this is such an invasion of privacy, I’ve only known you for two days, I’m the worst.” Louis’ words tumble out in a rush, and Harry finds his panic kind of adorable, but also wants to fix it.

Harry puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder and admires the way Louis leans into his touch. “L, it’s okay,” he says, putting as much force behind each word as he can. “I don’t mind, really.” 

Niall grumbles from the other bed. “It’s obvious you two want to have each other’s babies, but can we get breakfast this century please?”

Harry and Louis both blush and giggle, and Harry likes how quickly they’ve become inevitable.

***  
After five straight hours of rehearsals, Harry is considerably less happy. He likes the music in his small group, but the all-choir music is boring, and the director is making choices he doesn’t understand. Also, his back is killing him from standing for so long. Luckily, the choir directors have decided to let the students out in the City for dinner tonight. 

He meets up with Louis, Niall, Liam and Zayn on the basketball court outside the gym. Louis looks annoyed. His huffy expression is cute, and he’s wearing his thick-framed glasses, which is cuter, but Harry needs to focus on the task at hand. Which is, apparently, convincing Liam and Zayn to explore with them.

“Look,” Louis says, “You guys can have a lovey-dovey date time anytime at home, but I live nine hours away from you and I’m one of your best friends.”

Liam only shakes his head more firmly. “No, L,” he responds, “I made this reservation forever ago. The restaurants are so much nicer here. Foodie capital of the world, or whatever. C’mon, Z, we’re going.”

Louis lets out an exasperated sigh and pouts dramatically. Harry wants to kiss the frown away, and he’s pretty sure it shows on his face. Oh, well.

Louis turns to poke Niall in the chest, saying dramatically, “Are YOU going to abandon me, too? All I want in the world is to explore Frisco with my friends.”

And, oh, that is too far. Harry can’t help himself. “I KNEW IT,” he crows. Louis and Niall turn to stare at him blankly. Harry directs his gaze at Louis deliberately, saying slowly, “I knew there had to be a catch, you couldn’t actually be perfect.”

Niall lets out a mocking laugh at this dorky line, but Louis looks puzzled. “What’s the catch?” he asks, giving Harry a look of such utter bewilderment that Harry almost feels bad. Almost.

Harry throws his head back, spreads his arms, and groans the answer to the stars: “You said FRISCO.”

Louis pounces on him, his cold hands poking and tickling every where he can reach under Harry’s oversized A’s sweatshirt, while Harry tries ineffectively to fend him off. Within five minutes, they’re both reduced to giggling, blushing messes, lying on the asphalt and breathing hard. Harry looks up and finds that Niall is gone, and can’t really bring himself to care. “Lou,” he says raggedly, trying to focus on something other than how pink and kissable Louis’ face looks right now. “Lou, what do you want for dinner? We have an hour before we have to be back at the hotel, and everyone has abandoned us.”

Louis looks at him speculatively, and then says brightly, “Ice cream. I want ice cream for dinner.”

Harry can feel the automatic, Louis-induced smile on his face as he says, “I know just the place.”

Smitten is small, essentially a shack, and ridiculously hipster. The flavors are pretentious--earl gray with milk chocolate chips, blood orange with pistachio cookies, etc--and the pricing is almost obscene. But it’s only a ten-minute walk from their rehearsal space, and Harry is counting on the luminous curiosity he’s observed in Louis over the last couple of days. Louis fascinated by the structure of a chord in their group piece, playing it over and over on his keyboard in their room, Louis awed by Zayn’s description of helping with a cow-birth, Louis stilled and focused, talking to Niall about the music industry, the how and the why of it all. 

Louis takes one look at the prices and asks, “Is the ice cream made of gold? Because if not, Harold, I don’t know if this is worth it.”

“It’s not what it’s made of,” Harry replies. “It’s what it’s made with.” He takes Louis by the hand, and he’s a little surprised by that, by his own boldness, but Louis doesn’t object. Harry leads the other boy to the end of the counter, away from the ordering part, so they can see the tiny woman with the pink hair and the apron lift a heavy vat of Something and pour it, gushing, into an industrial mixer.

“Is that,” Louis says breathlessly, “Liquid Nitrogen?”

“I knew you would like it, you nerd,” Harry responds. Louis reaches out and pinches his side blindly, eyes still locked on the ice cream-making process, but he turns when Harry lets out a squeal.

“This is hella cool,” Louis admits. “Does it taste good?”

“Duh,” says Harry softly, and he knows he’s grinning like a loon.

When they have their dessert and are seated on a wooden bench in the square outside to eat it, Louis starts getting snaps from Liam and Zayn. Apparently they’re heartily amused by the way the restaurant they’re at is plating their food into flower shapes. Harry’s not that interested, though, he’s been to places like that before, so he pulls out his own phone to check. He finds a text from Madison:

**How’s it going, dude?**

_Smitten_ he responds simply

He receives a reply immediately: **YOU ADMIT IT?**

 _THE ICE CREAM PLACE, YOU JERK_ he types furiously, hoping Louis is still too occupied with his own communications to look at Harry’s phone right this second. He has no such luck, though--he can sense Louis reading over his shoulder, and he’s about to try to laugh it off when Louis speaks.

Surprisingly, Louis doesn’t comment on the content of the messages, choosing instead to read off the contact name in an amused voice: “‘Madison, I’m Her Bitch’?”

“I am,” Harry says simply, and he wonders how he should explain this. “I guess, um, she put that in herself, but it’s still mostly true. I mean, it’s Madison, she’s outta pocket and gorgeous and pan and proud and makes beautiful art and she loves to sing and play guitar but she hates choir and she makes fun of me for liking classical music. Niall would fall in love with her in two seconds and she would hate him on sight” Harry laughs a little at his own description, but he can feel Louis’ eyes on him, still curious, gently probing, so he keeps going. “She’s my best friend, through thick and thin, and the bad times were, um, not great. She’s kind, even though she doesn’t know it. We make a good team. She gets us into trouble and makes me brave, I charm our way out of it and make her smarter.”

Harry is a little embarrassed at his sudden, passionate description of his best friend. He knows he tends to ramble, and maybe it’s a bit of a weird topic for a first date? (Is this a date?) But he can’t really bring himself to care when he sees Louis looking at him with a look that’s a mixture of admiration and gentle understanding and unlike anything he’s seen before.

“Look, you know about my dad, right?” Harry asks, and he means to use it to further explain the love he holds for Madison, but this is it, the big question, because if Harry is wrong, if Louis doesn’t know, then Harry will have to tell him. Then Harry will have to gauge his reaction, see if Louis treats him differently, see if he, Harry, can handle well-meaning pity from someone like Louis. It really is exhausting.

“Yeah, I know,” Louis says quietly. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. “I know,” Louis continues. “Rachel told me last year when Gemma didn’t make it to Honor Choir. And I knew before then that he was sick, Gemma told me at CMEA two years ago.” Louis looks sad at the thought of Harry’s dad dying, but he doesn’t look at Harry like he’s broken. He still meets Harry’s eyes. Harry feels like crying selfish tears of relief.

“I’m glad you know,” Harry says quietly, and it’s true. They both let that statement sink in for a moment, sitting in companionable silence, Harry’s grief an unspoken but friendly presence, instead of the invisible monster it sometimes becomes. 

“So,” Harry asks speculatively, “What do you think of your technologically advanced ice cream?” 

“It’s the best ice cream I’ve ever had,” Louis declares. And Louis’ smile is big and genuine, crinkling his eyes, so Harry thinks he means it. 

They finish their ice cream quickly and quietly, and carefully separate their waste like the California boys they are. As Harry tosses the napkins and biodegradable spoons into the compost bin, he feels Louis come up next to him, and press a kiss into his cheek. Harry starts in surprise, and he knows that he’s blushing to the roots of his hair, but he doesn’t mind. They hold hands all the way back to the hotel.

DAY FOUR

Harry wakes up to fingers poking into his spine. He feels himself smile before he even registers fully what’s happening. He rolls over and looks directly into Louis’ face. They had slept in the same bed on purpose the night before, Louis having given the excuse that “Niall bites in his sleep.” Harry didn’t really believe him, but certainly didn’t argue the point. Now Louis is bleary-eyed and cozy-looking, with truly impressive bedhead and a surprisingly mischievous smile.

“Harry, dude,” Louis says, “We’ve got to get up, we have rehearsal in 30 minutes at the high school, and we have a concert tonight.”

“Did you seriously just call me dude?” Harry asks, the only way his sleepy brain can think to keep Louis snuggled in bed beside him.

“What would you prefer? ‘Pal?’ ‘Buddy-of-mine?’” Louis responds, eyes sparkling, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised.

“Bro,” contends Harry with a cheeky eyebrow flick of his own, which earns him a playful slap upside the head from Louis.

“Babe--” Louis begins quickly, and it seems like there’s supposed to be more to the sentence, but Harry can’t tell, because he’s smiling so wide it feels as if his face will split open, and Louis is giving him the softest look ever, and there are golden flowers blossoming in his stomach, and Louis’ hand is brushing his cheek and Harry knows he is about to be kissed, and then Niall shouts.

“HEY!” Niall’s voice, loud and slightly stressed, effectively pops their sparkly little bubble. “As adorable as you two are, I do not want to be here for this. Additionally, you now have about ten minutes to get dressed before our rehearsal starts. So, save it!”

Muttering grumpily, Harry and Louis roll out of their opposite sides of the bed.

***

Harry is really sick of rehearsals, although he’s angry with himself for being so ungrateful. He has loved his time at Honor Choir, and not just because of a certain blue-eyed boy. He has loved meeting new people, and loved learning from professional musicians. He really loves the playful but difficult music the young director in charge of the men’s chorus has chosen (although he wishes Louis were in his group, instead of being in the mixed group with Liam, Zayn, Gemma, and Rachel). It’s just that it’s been a long few days, and Mr. Winston isn’t helping anything. Harry knows intellectually that Benjamin Winston is a brilliant director, but it turns out that he can’t stand him in person, and it makes the all-choir rehearsals that much more painful. The bombastic closing number is also both far too simplistic and far too dramatic for Harry’s taste. Harry is currently squeezed next to Niall and 329 other people on the too-small stage of the First Unitarian Universalist Church, and he wishes Mr. Winston would go over the more difficult, softer, Eric Whitacre-written opening number instead. Harry has a headache.

Niall must sense Harry’s irritation and discomfort, because he leans over, whispering “Only about fifteen minutes, and then you can go get ready for your date.”

And, oh, that is a nice reminder. 

Last night, lying facing Louis on the luxurious hotel mattress, Harry had gotten brave. “I like you,” he had whispered, careful of his decibel level for fear of waking Niall. Louis’ face had seemed to shine through the dim light of the single reading lamp.  
“It’s mutual,” Louis had said quietly, and somehow those were the nicest words Harry had ever heard.

They had talked until three am. Harry had learned everything he could about Louis, determined to forget nothing. He learned that Louis wants to go Cal or UCLA to become a music producer. Louis has four sisters, who he helped raise. Louis’ favorite movie is Grease, and his favorite sport after surfing is soccer. As far as baseball was concerned, Louis is an Angels fan (which is at least better than the Dodgers in Harry’s book). Louis likes classical music fine, but he joined choir mainly for the friends, and he continues to be surprised that he’s good enough for things like Honor Choir.

Harry, having been emboldened by the earlier crush disclosure, had asked Louis three important questions:  
\--Does Louis have a car?  
\--How often does Louis think he could come to the Bay Area?  
\--Did he want to get lunch tomorrow?

Louis had answered:  
\--Louis has a “beat up hunk of junk” he bought himself  
\--Louis’ mom has weekend shifts at the hospital every other weekend, but those weekends she’s home she encourages him to go out with his friends. “So, probably once to twice a month.”  
\--Louis would love to go to lunch with Harry, as long as they were both clear that it was a date, with more dates likely in the future.  
These answers had made Harry want to reach out and grab Louis’ hand, so he had, and they had fallen asleep like that.

Now Harry realizes that, once again, he has missed the end of rehearsal by thinking about Louis. Somehow, he doesn’t really mind. He has two hours until they’re called for the concert, and he intends to make the most of it.

***  
When they meet in front Arlequin, Harry heaves a sigh of relief. He had asked Louis to meet him there, instead of going with him, because he had wanted Gemma and Rachel to help him get ready. On his way to the restaurant, however, Harry had grown panicky at the thought that Louis might get lost in SF. It was about 15 minutes from the church they were going to perform in to their hotel, and it was 15 minutes from there in a different direction to Hayes Valley and Arlequin. Maybe Harry should have chosen a different restaurant. Louis makes it there safely, though, and Harry may or may not gasp when he sees how gorgeous Louis looks. 

Louis has on black skinny jeans, vans, and a light turquoise sweater that looks comfy. And he looks like a model. The sweater brings out the blue in his eyes, and his body looks amazing. He’s strong but delicate, curvy and angular at the same time. Harry has to remind himself to breathe when he remembers that this boy wants to date him.

Harry had picked out his own outfit with care: a light lavender button down (with the top three buttons open), skinny blue jeans, and oxfords. When Louis reaches for his hand to lead him into the restaurant, Harry can’t help but thinking that they’d make quite an attractive couple. He can tell they look good together.

While standing in line, Louis lets Harry expound on the virtues of Arlequin’s grilled cheese for several minutes, watching him with an expression that makes Harry feel like a rockstar instead of a dorky fifteen-year-old talking about gourmet comfort food. When they get to the counter is when they first run into trouble: Louis won’t let Harry pay for his own order.

“H,” Louis says impatiently, “I am WOOING you, it’s my duty to pay for your food, shoo.”

Harry tries to argue, saying that he was the one who asked, that anything other than splitting the bill is outdated, that he is already plenty wooed, but Louis won’t have it, firmly pointing for Harry to go find them somewhere to sit. Harry pouts, and goes to find them a table. They had decided earlier to eat inside instead of out in the garden, because the afternoon fog from the bay was coming in in full force and neither of them had brought a sweatshirt. Harry finds a small white table in the corner of the dimly lit little cafe, and Louis soon joins him with the food. 

If last night had been Harry finding out about Louis, today is Louis finding out about Harry. They’re delighted to discover that they have similar taste in music and movies. They both love Marvel superheroes and have watched lots of romcoms with their moms and sisters. They both like music of the indie-leaning-but-not-too-odd variety (Lorde, Ed Sheeran, Regina Spektor). Louis seems surprised by Harry’s virulent hatred of Taylor Swift, but doesn’t question it. Harry blossoms under Louis’ attention, telling him about how much he loves his school, but sometimes hates the people in it, confiding in him about hating to complain about anything when he is so inherently privileged. Louis calls him “the best person in the world” and Harry is so happy he could cry. 

After an hour of delicious food and even more delicious conversation (which had eventually devolved into “why are your eyes are beautiful?” “can I touch your curls?” “how are you not a model?”), Harry finally thinks to check his phone and realizes that they have twenty minutes to make a half hour journey back to the church for their call time. He pulls Louis up by the hand and they run out of the cafe and down the street, laughing and whooping, to the dismay of passersby.

They reach the church only eight minutes late, but Harry feels a tight ball of fear in his stomach. The fear has been tugging at his organs ever since they got on the bus to come back, but it increases tenfold when they reach the actual performance space. Louis turns to face him as they reach the door, and seems to understand Harry’s state of mind instantaneously.

“Are you nervous?” Louis asks, face full of solicitude.

“Lightweight,” Harry replies, grinning weakly. Louis takes Harry’s hand between two of his own.

“Harry,” Louis says. “Listen to me. You are going to do great. There’s a reason you’re one of only five freshman at this shindig. You are a great musician with an awesome voice. You know this music. This is going to be fun.” Louis drops Harry’s hand for emphasis, and Harry misses the contact.

“Okay,” Harry says half-heartedly, and he’s looking at the ground, so he doesn’t see Louis’ arm reach out to pull him in. Harry looks up and finds himself staring directly into Louis’ blue, blue eyes. 

“For luck,” Louis says, and he presses his lips firmly, but softly, onto Harry’s. Harry’s lips burn at the contact, and birds swoop through his stomach and he sees stars. After a very very short time, Louis breaks the kiss. “H, we have a call time, we’re already late” Louis says, voice full of regret.

“Fuck it,” Harry says seriously, but Louis just laughs and pulls Harry after him into the church.

***  
They’re on the last song of the concert, and Harry finally realizes why Mr. Winston chose it. It’s big and bombastic in a way that feels crude when performed without an audience, but with six hundred people watching them, as the culmination of four straight days of work, at the end of a two hour concert, it strikes just the right note. The audience is enraptured, the singers are energized. Harry sings his heart out, the performance-high carrying him through. He feels like his hair is glowing, his skin sizzling. He wonders if the audience can tell that he loves music more than anything in the world. 

When the final note finishes, almost before the conductor releases them, Harry turns to look for Louis. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his mom, Rachel’s mom, Madison, Ahmed, all moving towards the stage, looking for him. Harry can’t greet them yet, though. He needs to get to Louis before his confidence and clarity have worn off. He turns again, and sees him.

Louis looks like a Disney prince in his black suit and blue tie, effortlessly handsome. Harry pushes through the crowd, wanting to run, apologizing by rote. When he reaches Louis, he is breathless.

“Be my boyfriend, please” Harry says, more a statement than a question, voice coming out deeper and more desperate than he would have thought possible.

Louis smiles big and bright. “Of course,” he answers.

And Harry kisses him, and the world goes away.

**Author's Note:**

> Smitten Ice Cream is a real place, so is Arlequin, they're both delicious.  
> The First Unitarian Universalist Church in San Francisco is beautiful.
> 
> I used Liam as my mouthpiece for my opinion on the boys' Hogwarts houses, feel free to fight me on it, I will defend my position to the death.
> 
> Bay Area Glossary:  
> hella--very (loosely) [Taylor Swift uses this incorrectly, only people from the Bay should say it]  
> outta pocket--outrageous/blunt/odd/mildly offensive, can refer to a person or an occurrence  
> lightweight--kind of  
> Frisco--something you're only allowed to say if you're a member of Hell's Angels, otherwise you will be mercilessly mocked


End file.
